


A Design So Vast

by takadainmate



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a street in the East Village, the sign outside an old church reads, <i>"The devil called. He wants his weather back."</i> John wholeheartedly wishes he'd come get it, and Harold has to accept that he can't keep wearing three piece wool suits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Design So Vast

Summer arrives late and sudden, so that one day the city is comfortable in suits and ties and maybe a light jacket and the next is sweaty and over-heated and yanking at collars and shedding layers and wishing someone would just switch on the damned air conditioning. John is glad he doesn't wear a tie, but wonders how he's going to retain his mantle of _man in a suit_ when he wants nothing more than to just yank his jacket off and throw it into the next dumpster. He thinks of shorts and, okay, no, but maybe light pants. Short sleeves. It's a dream that won't happen because neither of these will hide the line of a gun.

Maybe he's a little over-zealous as he beats a man wearing nothing more than cut-offs and a gaudy gold chain around his neck, but he's a thief and a murderer so John doesn't feel guilty.

That first week, while the rest of New York takes off its clothes and yanks up the air, Harold remains unchanged and coming back to the library is surreal; from all that flesh on show to Harold still hidden away under his shirt and his vest and his jacket. The fabric remains heavy, maybe wool, and when John mentions it, says, "Have you considered wearing something a little lighter, Harold?" Harold replies, "Wool _breathes_ ," as though that makes up for the layers and the tie that has got to be stifling.

Even worse, there's no air conditioning in the Library. The windows only open a fraction, and even if they could open them wide, the building is supposed to be unoccupied. 

Harold never complains about the heat, about how heavy and still and suffocating the air can get on the worst days so neither does John. He sits in his usual leather-backed seat in the corner and he watches Harold work and makes no comment when Harold wipes his hand across his forehead. 

Outside, in the sun, it's even worse and John can't fail to notice how Harold goes out even less now than he did before. He's always already there, in his chair at his desk, before John arrives; early enough that John suspects Harold is there before it even gets light, if he ever leaves. 

At night, long after John has gone home to bask in the glory of his fully air conditioned apartment, he suspects Harold is still at the Library, tapping away at his computers, sweating to death in heavy, expensive cloth. 

He calls, one night, because he's maybe had one too many glasses of whiskey and he misses the sounds of Harold near-by, and asks, "Are you still there, Finch?" and Harold says, "Yes. I have some work to finish, Mr. Reese. What is it you needed?"

Not _what is it you wanted_ , but _what is it you needed_ , and John would like to say nothing, you've already given me everything, but he isn't that drunk.

So he says, "Did you grow up someplace tropical? Because I've never met anyone before who wears a three piece suit when it's ninety-eight out."

He hears Harold huff a laugh and smiles, takes another sip, imagines that maybe, secretly, Harold's wearing Bermudas and a ripped t-shirt and sandals.

"It is a little warm," Harold admits, and John snorts into his drink. 

"I won't think any less of you," John says, "If you take off your jacket."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Harold says dryly, "For the permission. And there was me imagining I was the employer." 

The tapping sound of keys has stopped and over the line John can hear shuffing sounds, like fabric over fabric. Maybe Harold actually taking off his jacket after all, but John doesn't dare comment. 

"So we have a dress code now?" John asks instead, laying back into his over-stuffed couch more heavily. He swills the remainder of his drink around in the bottom of the glass, watches the light catch on the crystal: overpriced tumblers that came with the loft. That Harold bought.

"I do have an image to uphold," Harold says, and John can hear the amusement in his voice. They spend so much time on the phone together, John thinks, that it's not really a surprise that he can tells Harold's moods, imagine his expression when they're talking like this. 

On the other end of the line the typing resumes, fast and effortless and familiar. 

"Several images," John points out. "Harold Gull didn't wear a tie." 

"Harold Gull was also incredibly reckless." 

"Are you saying then," John suggests, "that tie-wearing is inversely proportional to recklessness?" 

He can feel himself grinning like an idiot and he doesn't care. He can blame it on the liquor. Or Harold. Or both. Then Harold laughs. _Really_ laughs, and John doesn't think he's ever heard that before. Somehow, it makes John feel like he's accomplished something. Something that, for once in his life, is _good_.

"I don't have enough data to possibly come to that conclusion." John thinks that Harold is trying for stern, but he's not even close.  
"Well then," John swallows down the rest of his drink, enjoys the burn. "We'll just have to gather more data. Harold Finch should try going without a tie for a while; see if there's any change."

Harold snorts. " _Harold Finch_ sees no benefit for himself in this experiment, Mr. Reese."

"I'd say he'd probably be a hell of a lot cooler," John tries. "Increased airflow. Less risk of being throttled by disgruntled employees."

"Is that a very great risk then?" Finch asks. "Disgruntled employees?" 

"You'd know better than me. You must have hundreds of employees." 

There's a pause, and then Harold says, "Harold Finch only has one." 

There's a strange, twisted up feeling in his stomach that John doesn't want to look at too closely, doesn't want to feel comfortable, but is just the wrong side of drunk enough to let himself enjoy. Just this once.

"Right," he finds himself saying. "Then no. No risk."

On the other end of the line Harold says, "Hmm," which might be agreement or amusement but is definitely pleased.

John doesn’t know how long he sits there, just listening to Harold type, to his breathing and the subtle sound of him shifting. Harold doesn’t close the line and John certainly isn’t going to. It’s late enough to be nearly morning by the time John feels himself falling asleep. He wonders if maybe Harold has just forgotten the line is still open, but then Harold says “You should go to bed, Mr, Reese,” and his voice is suddenly closer, softer than it had been before. Different.

“You should go somewhere with air conditioning.” John yawns around his words and isn’t surprised when Harold just laughs quietly and says, “Goodnight, Mr. Reese. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There’s no new number, John is certain- has long since learnt to listen out for the tension, the urgency in Harold’s voice when there is- but now he spends almost every day at the Library, number or no. There’s something strange, John thinks, about knowing where you’ll be the next day. Knowing who will be there waiting for you. 

John shakes his head; he’s becoming domestic. Predictable. And he doesn’t even mind. 

He looks at his watch. “I’ll see you _today_.”

“Yes,” Harold agrees. “I suppose I will.”

*

The second week and there is tension in the city, like everyone is just waiting for something to break. John sheds his jacket but not his shirt and doesn’t worry too much if he smells bad because New York is starting to reek of sweat; musty and cloying. The smell infects every place he goes with the exception, somehow, of the Library. It still smells as it always does; of books and tea and leather. It’s weird and reassuring at the same time.

Inside, Harold at last succumbs to the heat, wearing a suit of a lighter fabric and looking more wilted and unhappy, but still he refuses to lose the tie.

John brings Harold iced tea instead of his green tea and gets a raised eyebrow instead of a complaint. 

John tries, “You must be the only man left in the entire state still wearing a tie,” and he tries, “It’s not a competition,” and finally he tries, “Now you’re just being stubborn.” Harold points to John’s shirt and says, “Perhaps I should reconsider that company dress code.” 

Then later, when John is running down a back alley, chasing after their latest number who is young and fast and jumps easily over a four foot wall and John thinks that this is just his damned day, Harold is saying in his ear, “Running shoes should perhaps form part of the dress code too.” 

John is grinning as he scrambles over the wall, and he must look a little crazed because their number looks back at him with a freaked out expression on his face where he’s stopped to see if John is still following him. 

And when John returns to the Library Harold has ice-cold water and a towel and a change of clothes and doesn’t say anything when John lies on the floor with the towel over his face and just breathes. Close by, John can hear Bear wuffing and whining and Harold telling him to leave John alone. The ground is cool under his back and John thinks he just might stay here the rest of summer. There’s the steady background thrum of computer processors, Bear’s claws tapping and scratching against the floor, and Harold’s voice. John wonders if he often speaks to Bear. John wonders what he says. 

He listens to the sound of Harold’s shoes clacking and creaking as he walks in an unsteady rhythm. They stop somewhere over by Harold’s desk, still for a moment before the chair is pushed back, before the well known sound of Harold adjusting himself in the chair, before his hands rest on the edge of the desk. John doesn’t need his eyes to see it. 

Another pause before Harold says, “Drink something, Mr. Reese.” 

“Yes, boss,” John says. There’s a bottle beside his hand and he drinks half of it in one go. 

The typing starts up and John lets himself drift. It’s like the night he drank whisky and asked Finch if he grew up somewhere tropical and Harold asked him what he needed and neither of them gave a straight answer. 

He asks, “Have you considered fitting climate control?”

“No,” Harold replies.

“Maybe a fan?” John pushes.

“No,” Harold says.

“Do you at least have something at home?” He’s thinking of how Harold seems to spend even more time at the Library now than he did in the winter when the heating was unreliable and inefficient and pretty much only good for one room; this room. 

“No,” Harold says and that makes John frown, pull the towel from his face and _look_ at Harold. He’s not paying attention to John, concentration focused on lines of numbers and letters scrolling down the screen in front of him. 

“No? You really must be used to this kind of heat.”

Harold blinks and turns to John. His expression gives nothing away. 

“ _I_ didn’t just run half way across Manhattan,” Harold points out. “It’s not _that_ hot.” But it is and Harold knows it. His face is flushed and there’s a dampness around his collar, discomfort in the way he shifts and John suspects this has less to do with obstinacy and more to do with history you can’t hide; what’s written on skin. 

This is a subject John won’t push. This is a line John won’t cross until Harold does. If he ever does. 

Instead, “Tell your Machine no more numbers until the heat wave is over.”

Harold smiles. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Reese.”

*

It’s no great surprise that neither Harold nor the Machine can restrain humanity’s dedication to violence and the next day the temperature is pushing one hundred and there’s a number. More surprising, more unsettling, Harold looks tired and worn as though he hasn’t slept at all. His hands move at a fraction of their usual speed across his keyboard. John finds water, puts it on the desk beside Harold’s elbow and stands over him, watching, until Harold sighs in irritation and drinks. 

“It’s cool at my place,” John finds himself suggesting, because he hates the way Harold’s shoulders are hunched with fatigue. 

“I should think so,” Harold says. “The air system was-“ Then Harold stops and raises his head to look at John. 

John smiles, shrugs. “Just a suggestion. I can cook,” he offers. 

Harold turns back to his screen, to a photograph of their new number, his CV, his financial records. He doesn’t reply, but it’s not a no. 

Later, sitting in one of Harold’s cars with the air conditioning turned right up, watching their number lugging crates from a curbside delivery truck into his store, sweating and red-faced and miserable-looking, John says to Harold, “The only danger our guy is facing at the moment is heat stroke.”

Harold’s response is immediate, dry. “Him and the rest of New York.” 

“I heard this heatwave is going to continue for another couple of weeks yet,” John says. 

“Yes, I heard that too.” And there’s the familiar tapping sound; Harold looking something up, maybe coding, maybe writing his autobiography for all John knows. Well, no, definitely not that. John is certain Harold would see writing down anything personal as being far too much of a risk. He wonders how many names, places, dates, numbers Harold holds in his head where he keeps nothing on paper, no records. John doubts there are very few photographs even, and thinks of the image of a younger, happier Harold and Nathan Ingram back at the Library, hidden away in a book as though it’d been forgotten. Sometimes when he passes the book- the photograph- Harold reaches out and runs his hand along the shelf. If it were anyone else John would say it was unconscious habit, but this is Harold and John doubts there are any missteps. No behaviour he hasn’t considered.

“I could pick you up a fan on the way back,” John offers. He’s not worried, not really. “Pair of shorts?” 

Harold snorts. “I’m perfectly capable of ordering things myself.”

“Then you should-“ John starts to argue, but then he notices movement out the corner of his eye; two men dressed in black, keeping to the shadows, their hands hidden in the hang of their jackets. They must be sweltering, John thinks. They move fast, efficient, precise: planned. 

John is out of the car and across the street before Harold has had the chance to ask, “What is it, Mr. Reese?”

“Assassins,” John tells him. “Professionals.” 

They’ve worked together long enough, know each other well enough, that Harold doesn’t reply. He understands what John is about to do. It’s easy enough to shove the storekeeper- their number- into the back room, to take out two professional killers who were expecting an easy kill, easy money; John does this almost every other week these days. What’s hard is to hear Harold’s voice on the other end of the line calling, “Mr. Reese? Are you alright?” and not to be able to reply because there is a third assassin that John hadn’t seen and he takes the back of John’s head and slams his face against a wall. Idiot, he berates himself. Sloppy. His cheek stings and his head feels heavy and slow and all John can hear is Harold saying, “Mr. Reese? John?” Worry. Fear, for him. That, too, is hard to hear, because John can’t believe for a second he is worth Harold’s concern.

Something hard, metal, strikes him across back of his head before John can get his thoughts in line and he tastes blood. It shouldn’t have been this easy. He should never have been caught off guard like this and John is going to blame it on the heat and the humidity and the storekeeper yelling at him and clawing at his arm as John tried to drag him out the back door of his shop to safety. 

The taste of dirt fills John’s mouth; he’s on the ground. In his ear Harold is saying, “I’m coming to your location,” in that determined tone he gets when he’s about to do something reckless and so much for Harold Gull being the impulsive one. 

“It’s under control, Finch,” John manages to say around what is definitely a split lip. The sounds of Harold’s bustling stops suddenly and John is filled with relief, even as he senses movement behind him; a fist, and this time muscle memory, training, long experience kicks in and John blocks the blow, returns it with a punch to the head that sends the assassin reeling back. 

Harold says, “It doesn’t _sound_ very under control,” with such disbelief that John laughs. 

Later, when the assassin is dealt with and their number is hidden away with a stern warning to stay away from the city and several hundred thousand dollars of Harold’s money in a suitcase, John sits in the Library, uncomfortable where his shirt sticks to his sweating back, and he watches Harold move around the room, bringing him water and the first aid kit and a bag of candy. Bear sits at his feet hopefully.

“You keep giving your money away like that, Harold,” he says, “we’re going to have to downsize. “

Talking hurts his face where John can feel bruising, scrapes pulling. He doesn’t want to know how bad of a mess he looks. From the tightness around Harold’s eyes, the way he frowns disapprovingly every time he turns to face him, John guesses not good.

“I assure you,” Harold says, “We’ll sell your loft before we sell the Library.”

John smiles, even if that kind of hurts too. “I thought the loft was mine?”

“Well,” Harold raises his eyebrows, “If you’re free to take liberties with my wealth then I feel it’s only fair I have a say with yours.”

If Harold asked, John thinks, he’d give him anything. Everything. 

“What’s mine is yours?”

Harold doesn’t meet his eyes when he says under his breath, “Something like that.” He raises his arm to take hold of John’s chin, fingers gentle, pressing a cloth to where John can still feel wetness; blood running slow trails down the side of his face. It’s only then that John notices the stains of red on the inner sleeve of Harold’s jacket. Looking more closely there’s blood too on the collar, dirt at the shoulder. John looks at his hands, wiped partially clean, and knows he must have done that. He wonders how much the jacket is worth.

“I think I’ve ruined your suit,” John says, and hisses when Harold presses too hard against his cheek.

“It’s easily replaced.” Harold looks pointedly at John. “Should I remind you that you’re not?”

There are a hundred, a thousand more where he came from, John thinks. 

He says, “I can imagine interviewing new candidates would be a chore.”

Where Harold’s arm is so close, John can see the cuff of his shirt, stained and wet. His cufflinks are plain. Probably solid silver; the true extent of Harold’s wealth always hidden away. It’s become habit, John guesses, the care Harold takes to protect his secrets, the same way John can’t imagine sleeping without a weapon close by. Can’t imagine taking anyone at their word anymore. John wishes Harold would take as much care to protect himself.

The air in the library is almost stifling and Harold looks tired and hot and annoyed when he says, “There are no other candidates, Mr. Reese.”

*

John tries for three hours to sleep, laying on his expensive sheets in his expensive bed in his expensive loft, and he’s still staring up at the ceiling watching strips of orange and blue light stretching out from the windows, patterns that remind him of the shadows and reflections of the Library.

His head is pounding, his throat dry; he’s long since emptied the glass of water Harold left on the nightstand. The clock reads three in the morning. He should be exhausted, he should have easily fallen asleep the way he’d learned to do long ago in the noisiest, most uncomfortable places where an hour lying on the floor, or twenty minutes curled up in the back of a truck might be the only sleep you got for days. But it’s the quiet, the empty space that John thinks is keeping him awake. He turned off the air conditioning hours ago because it made the room feel like the inside of a refrigerator, the air stale. He’s sweating into the sheets, can feel the wetness at the back of his neck, and all John can think about is Harold’s jacket stained with his blood.

Before John can consider all the ways it’s a bad idea, he’s reaching for his phone and his earpiece, feeling the ache of bruises being stretched all along his arm. When he looks at the screen the line is already open, and John isn’t surprised.

“Listening in on me, Harold?” John says into the silence of his apartment. His voice doesn’t echo, but he feels like it should. He finds himself expecting Harold to say, _Always_.

There’s a pause for a moment, and then, “I have it on good authority that you don’t rest when I tell you to.”

John closes his eyes, tries to listen for the well-known sounds of the library. He doesn’t hear the familiar tapping of keys, or the whirr of Harold’s computers, or the hollow creaking of the old pipework. 

“Whose authority is that?” he asks and Harold replies, “Mine,” and John smiles.

“I’m resting,” he protests, patting the mattress of the bed, as though Harold could see him as well as hear him. Maybe he can. It should be intrusive, John thinks. If it were anybody else it would be. “You could bring me another glass of water, though,” John says. “If you wanted to help.”

Harold makes a humming sound. “You know where the sink is, Mr. Reese.”

Then, John hears the scuffling sound of claws clicking against tile, and there’s no tile floor at the library. John listens to the sound of Harold scratching at Bear’s fur, saying, “I don’t think Bear likes this heat. He hasn’t been eating very much. Perhaps you should take him tomorrow.”

“He gets antsy when he’s not with you.” Because Bear knows it’s his job to take care of Harold and, maybe, because John gets kind of anxious too when Harold isn’t in his line of site; when he can’t be certain Harold is safe. 

“I’m sure Bear will survive,” Harold says, “Especially when you feed him treats all the time.” 

“Only when he deserves them.” Which, okay, is probably all the time.

Harold scoffs in reply, and over the line John hears the scrape of a chair being pushed back, and somewhere in the background the distant sound of traffic.

“Where are you, anyway?” John asks.

“At home,” Harold says, easily enough that it surprises John. He’d almost begun to suspect that Harold only had hotels and safehouses and libraries and office blocks. Nowhere he considered _home_. 

He knows asking where it is, asking anything about it will get him nowhere so instead John says, “Tell me you at least took off that jacket.” 

“Of course,” Harold says, “I wouldn’t want to ruin the furniture.”

John wonders if Harold is in his shirt sleeves, if he’s taken off his vest too.

“Good,” he says, “Because I was beginning to suspect you slept in your suits too.”

There was a clicking sound on the other end of the line, like something being switched on, and Harold’s laugh, warm and light. On the ceiling above him the play of coloured light over white paint turns blue, orange, then green. He thinks about getting up to turn the air back on.

“I can assure you I don’t,” Harold tells him. It’s a weirdly intimate thing to discuss, John thinks, with your employee, in the middle of the night. But then, neither of them have ever done anything _normally_. 

“Do you even sleep, Harold?” Not that John can talk, but Harold is always awake when he calls at night, almost always at the Library and working when John arrives in the morning, no matter how early. 

“Eight hours a night,” Harold lies, not even trying to sound convincing. “And sleeping is exactly what you should be doing right now,” he adds in his sternest tone, the one Harold uses for uncooperative numbers and Bear when he’s gotten hold of another book. 

Despite the heat, the ache of bruises and pulled muscle, John’s eyes are heavy, vision blurry, and maybe, finally the need for sleep is catching up with him. 

“You could tell me a story,” John suggests, closing his eyes. It’s easy to imagine that Harold is right there, close, with his voice so clear.

“I’m sure I couldn’t,” Harold says. “Go to sleep, Mr, Reese.” 

It sounds final, and if it were anyone else John is certain that would have ended the call, but John can tell the line is still open. Listening.

“You too, Harold,” John says.

*

The third week of unbroken sun and day after day temperatures break records. Out on the streets there are noticeably fewer people, and those that brave the heat, or have no choice, are slow-moving, lethargic, the city smelling like pungent rot and sweat. They keep Bear indoors, and Harold keeps his jacket off, goes so far as to roll up the sleeves of his shirt far enough that John can see his forearms, his elbows. 

John watches the muscles in Harold’s arms work, watches as he rubs at his forehead, takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Drink more water,” John says, and Harold obeys.

Harold looks more tired and worn than ever. 

John teases, “Are you sure you don’t have a summer house somewhere out of the city?” 

“Three,” Harold says, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s serious or not. Either way, John knows he wouldn’t leave. The past seven days have seen them receiving more numbers than they’ve ever had in such a short space of time before, as though the heat has finally driven New York crazy. Even now he suspects Harold is looking up details of their next mark and John feels it too; the bone-deep exhaustion of never getting a chance to just _stop_. He’s been sleeping on a couch in the library and Harold has been sleeping at his desk and it isn’t good for either of them.

He thinks of stopping to buy a fan but never has the time; always on to the next case until he’s starting to get the names mixed up and Harold is taking noticeably longer to give him directions and if they keep this up they’re going to start getting people killed. 

“We need a day off. We need a _week_ off,” John announces, “But I’ll take a day.” His shirt is soaked through from chasing a car thief across town and his hands are scraped red raw from tackling him to the ground. 

Harold glances at him sidelong, frowns when he notices something is wrong, turns his chair to fully face John. He holds out his hands. “Let me see that.”

It’s nothing more than scrapes, nothing worth looking at. In his previous employment no one would have noticed, let alone worried about. But Harold is beckoning him over, saying, “I don’t have all day, Mr. Reese.”

In another time, with anyone else John would have said, _I’m fine_ , and _It’s just a scratch_ , but Harold is stubborn and John doesn’t have the energy to fight.

“Another number?” he asks wearily, and keeps his breath even when Harold turns his hands over, peers closely at the palms. His face turned down, John can’t see Harold’s expression but from the way his shoulders tense John can already guess the answer.

“It came in a little before you arrived.” 

John shakes his head. One of the most important lessons he’d learnt in the field was to know when to stop, just for a while, and _think_. “We can’t keep this up.”

“No,” Harold agrees. He’s still holding John’s hands, his touch light. They just need cleaning. There’s no need for Harold’s care. But there’s something distant in the way he continues to stare at the palms and John twists one hand free, puts the hand on Harold’s shoulder.

“Harold.”

He looks up, blinking, and John doesn’t like the redness around his eyes, the way his eyes have trouble focusing even behind Harold’s glasses.

“We’re calling in Carter.”

“I’m sure the police are doing no better than us,” Harold points out.

“No, but I’m sure they’ve had more than a couple hours sleep a night for the past three weeks.” 

It must be worse than John thought because Harold doesn’t even try to argue, and when they meet up with Carter and Fusco at a diner two taxi rides and three blocks away from the Library, the first thing Fusco says is, “Woah. You two look worse than the guys at the precinct.” 

Since the last time they saw him Fusco has ditched the suit and is wearing shorts and an overly bright t-shirt. In the seat beside him Harold grimaces at the sight of the outfit. 

The air conditioning is on as high as it will go, the room almost cold. Cold enough that John can see the hairs on Fusco’s arms standing on end, can see the goosebumps on his legs.

“New dress code, Lionel?” John asks, smiling widely and insincerely. 

“It’s my day off, jackass.” Fusco sits down heavily in the seat opposite John, glares, but his eyes keep shifting to look at Harold and John would swear there’s concern there. 

Carter, at least, is dressed sensibly. She leans heavily on the table, takes a long drink from the water glass as soon as it’s set in front of her. 

“It wasn’t easy getting away,” she says. “What’s the emergency?” Her eyes are narrowed, perceptive, and John’s fairly certain she knows why she’s here.

Sliding a folded scrap of paper across the table, Harold says, “A name.” 

“What, are you too busy washing your hair?” Fusco scoffs. “You’re always listening in on us; you know the city’s getting out of control.” 

“We have other business.” John waves a hand dismissively.

“What business?” Fusco demands, and John thinks, _sleep, and maybe food, but mostly sleep_ , but turns to Carter who is frowning down at the slip of paper still held under Harold’s fingertips. 

“All the information we can find is on there.” John points down to the paper. “You need anything else you call _me_.”

Both Harold and Carter look up; Harold kind of pissed and Carter is raising an eyebrow at him and John can see she’s trying to hide it, but she’s smirking. 

“We’ll help out,” she nods, plucks the paper from the table and moves to stand, “Take care of yourselves.” 

Carter leaves the diner with Fusco trailing after, protesting, “What’s with the “we”? I didn’t agree to anything.” John hears, “You’re too soft on those guys,“ before the door closes behind them, cutting off whatever Carter’s reply might have been.

Harold is glaring at him. 

“Mr. Reese-“

“I’m driving you home, or wherever it is you want to go that isn’t the Library,” John cuts in. “And you’re going to sleep.” 

There’s no doubt that Harold has at least half a dozen computers at every single one of his houses and apartments and hotel rooms and a spare or two in his cars, but John hopes he’ll be too tired to work. That Harold will recognise that they’ve been driving themselves into the ground these past three weeks. But he knows Harold well enough; he’ll be listening in, wherever Harold is, for the familiar sound of tapping keys. It surprises John sometimes to know that Harold lets him listen, certain that if Harold really wanted to keep John out of his business he could, and there would be nothing John could do about it.

Harold shifts beside him, his fingers closing around his water glass. “And what about you?” 

The thought occurs to John that he would stay with Harold, if he asked. 

“I’m going home too,” he says, and doesn’t watch the condensation pooling where Harold’s thumb meets glass.

*

John leaves Harold and Bear at a house on the Upper West Side, innocuous in its grandeur, indistinguishable from the other houses that bracket it. The address is unfamiliar; not one of the dozen or so houses John knows Harold owns dotted around Manhattan. 

It’s dark by the time John pulls up and even the night offers no relief from the heat; without any breeze the air is suffocating, humid enough that John feels himself sweating just sitting in the car, shirt sticking uncomfortably to the car seat. 

He walks Harold to the door, stays close to his side as Harold sways, unsteady. Before John has a chance to react Harold catches himself, straightened up. Perspiration stands out on Harold’s forehead, illuminated in the orange street lamps, the wash of light making Harold’s tired eyes look even worse; dark and bruised and dulled. 

They don’t speak, Harold offering a nod in parting and then he’s disappearing through the over-large door. The glimpse John catches of the interior before Harold closes the door is of high ceilings and antique, dark wood furniture and a stack of untouched mail piled high on the hardwood floor. 

John sits in his car across the street for an hour, making sure Harold doesn’t sneak away, back to the Library, waiting for all the lights in the house to go out, wondering what the hell he’s doing because Harold is an adult and John isn’t his keeper. 

Then, through the earpiece John hadn’t thought to take out, Harold’s voice.

“Go home, John.”

Quiet, tired, a hint of amusement. 

“I won’t go anywhere until morning,” Harold promises, and there’s no point pretending he isn’t watching. 

“I’ll know if you don’t.” 

John must sound like a nagging mother, but Harold just huffs a laugh. 

“Of course, Mr. Reese.”

The sound of Harold’s voice on these long, hot nights had become something John _expects_ ; a habit they’ve both gotten used to. Most of the time they talk about nothing, and John teases and Harold frets and John sleeps better, more heavily, than he has in years. 

With the memory of Harold’s tired amusement John drives home and collapses onto his bed still fully dressed, without the strength to turn on the air, despite the heat.

He doesn’t dream.

*

John wakes up eight hours later, hungry, thirsty and sweating through the sheets and yesterday’s clothes. The clock reads 8:30am and John can’t remember the last time he slept so late without being drunk or bleeding or half-conscious.

As much as John trusts Carter- not so much Fusco, but enough that he’ll stay in line- the first thing John does, before even getting out of bed, is to check in on them. 

Over the open line of Carter’s cell phone he hears Fusco say, “I’ll check with forensics,” and Carter says, “We’re close.”

“This would be faster with Four Eyes’” Fusco huffs. The sound of paper shuffling, footsteps and then Carter’s voice is closer.

“You saw the state those two were in.”

“Yeah,” Fusco agrees and John cuts the line. He doesn’t need to hear any more. Doesn’t want to hear what sounds a lot like concern. It’s bad enough when it comes from Harold. 

Harold, who he should check on too. 

He thinks of breakfast and drags himself up, limbs still heavy with sleep. The weather forecaster on the radio says, “Another morning of sun is expected, folks, temperatures climbing to 104 this afternoon,” and John tries to remember which diner has the best air conditioning.

He taps the screen of his cell phone, doesn’t even need to look anymore to know that he’s calling Harold. Three rings and John wanders into the bathroom, looks at his face in the mirror. He needs a shower. A shave.

Five rings and John frowns. It’s possible Harold is still asleep, if unlikely. Even less likely his cell isn’t close by. 

Seven rings and John is heading to his closet. Clothes. A weapon.

“Pick up, Harold.”

John could count on one hand the number of times Harold hasn’t answered his phone and none of them good. In his mind John runs through the possibilities: worst case scenarios. It’s a pointless thing to do, John knows that, and his former employers had repeatedly drilled into him that coming to conclusions before knowing the situation was counterproductive but John can’t stop thinking of Harold, passed out from heat exhaustion; kidnapped by Root again; killed, dead, when John wasn’t _there_. 

John is tugging on his pants, his shoulders so tense they hurt and any trace of sleep gone when the line clicks over. He freezes.

“Finch?”

A long pause, and John hears humming, a clanking sound of metal against metal, and then Harold’s voice, “Mr. Reese.”

John lets out a breath, feels himself relaxing; by now he thinks he knows almost all the tones Harold uses when he speaks over the phone and this one is not distressed or panicked or worried or hurt or unhappy. When he started categorising, when it started to matter how Harold sounded, John can’t remember. 

“You’re not at home, Finch,” John says, and doesn’t even try not to make it sound like an accusation. 

“No,” Harold admits, unrepentantly John thinks and that that just makes him angry.

“I told you to rest.”

“Until morning,” Harold reminds him, “And I did.”

John ignores the prickliness of Harold’s tone. There’s a breathiness to Harold’s voice that John doesn’t like, as though he’s been running, but all John can hear is the humming, and then the tapping of keys. 

John resumes pulling on his clothes, his fingers tangling with the cotton of his shirt in his hurry to do up the buttons and he knows- he knows all too well- he’s being ridiculous. Overreacting. That Harold is a grown man and can ignore him all he likes and not least because he’s the _boss_. But John has lost too much; too many friends and too much of himself and it’s been a long time since he remembered how to care about anything. 

“Where are you?” 

“I’m perfectly-“

“Harold,” John interrupts. “Where are you?”

The typing stops and for a moment John is certain Harold will not tell him, and John is forming plans to _find_ him; he has learned a lot from Harold in the time they’ve worked together. He’s learned a lot about Harold. But then Harold says, “My company. There was a problem.”

John doesn’t need to ask to know which company he means; the only one he seems to have any kind of attachment to.

“And you had to fix it yourself. Don’t you _pay_ people to do that?”

He knows it’s going to be uncomfortable as hell but John still drags his jacket on, considers his vast array of weapons. Goes with something easy to conceal. Light. 

“I’m coming to you.” He doesn’t really even understand why he needs to be there. Finch is in a place that is more home than anywhere else but the Library John has ever come to know about, but John trusts his instincts. They tell him not to leave Finch alone to work himself even further into the ground than he already has. They tell him that something is wrong with the way Finch isn’t saying much, how his breathing is too fast and too shallow. 

“There’s really no need, Mr. Reese,” Harold tries.

John pulls two bottles of water from his refrigerator, heads for the door. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” John tells him. He doesn’t add, _and you had better still be there_. 

“You will be incongruous with this persona,” Harold tries. 

There’s a snuffling sound, a clacking of claws that tells John that at least Harold had the sense to take Bear with him.

“And a dog isn’t? And didn’t you fire yourself from that job?”

“For taking long lunches in order to meet with a strange man in a suit, yes.” A cough. “That… didn’t quite come out right.”

John can feel himself grinning. 

“If you say so, Harold,” he teases, because he can and because it would be impossible to stop himself anyway. 

“Hm,” is Harold’s only reply, but he doesn’t cut the line and John listens to Harold typing, to Harold just breathing, the entire drive across town.

*

It’s Thursday morning and the last time John visited Harold’s company the lobby had been full of business types in fitted suits carrying top of the line laptops and shiny smart phones. Today there is a single wilted-looking receptionist stationed in front of a desk-top fan. Behind her, the letters IFT are emblazoned in etched glass. Tasteful. Simple. Expensive.

John smiles at her in greeting as he passes by, heading for the elevators like he does this everyday. The receptionist blinks at him, smiles wanly back, but doesn’t question John as he presses the down button. 

In the elevator John says in a low voice, “You really should do something about the security here, Harold. I just walked in off the street.”

There’s a long pause before Harold replies. “There’s very little to justify much more… rigorous security in this building.”

Except, John thinks, sometimes Harold still comes here and John isn’t entirely clear why. This isn’t the time to press though. Two floors down and John can feel the temperature creeping upwards; the elevator doors open and a blast of hot air hits John full in the face, so suffocating that he wants to step back from it, wants to close the elevator doors and go right back up to the air-conditioned lobby he came from. And Harold is somewhere down here, in this oppressive heat. 

“Where are you?” John demands. He’s going to drag Harold out of here as soon as he finds him. He’s going to tell him exactly all the ways this is _not_ what he meant by taking a couple of days off from the numbers. John is going to make him drink gallons of water and lie down and not let him out of his damn sight ever again. 

The further into the basement John ventures, passing banks of servers in neat lines, the hotter, thicker the air becomes. It’s hard to imagine how Harold can stand it. John can already feel sweat at the back of his collar, rolling down the small of his back. 

“Towards the back,” Harold says into his ear, the whir and hum of the servers echoing over the open line. 

Another three rows and John spots him sitting awkwardly on the floor surrounded by wires and two laptops. Bear is lying beside him and looks up at John’s appearance. Harold looks up at the same time, briefly, smiling before turning his attention back to one of the laptops.

John crouches down beside him, studies Harold closely. He’s sweating; there’s a half-empty bottle of water sitting beside him; his eyes are red under his glasses; his fingers fly over the keys of the laptop balanced on his lap. The suit is gone, replaced by lose cargo pants and shirt. The sleeves are short and John’s eyes follow a scar along the inside of his bicep.

Harold shifts, grimaces. 

“Staring at me will not remove me any sooner, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. He keeps his attention on the screen in front of him, long lines of scrolling numbers reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. 

They both know that John could force him if he wanted to- if he _needed_ to- but not without hurting Harold and that is something John won’t do unless he has to. 

“It was worth a shot,” John shrugs. “Harold, what was so important you had to come down _here_?” 

The way Harold tenses, his mouth turning down unhappily is so slight, such a fractional change that if John hadn’t been watching he would never have seen it. But he knows Harold, and in that instant he understands. His hand goes to the gun at his belt. Bear sits up at the change in John’s behaviour; alert, listening.

“No, John.” Harold shakes his head, sighs, runs a hand soothingly down Bear’s back. “She’s not here.” He points to the bank of servers in front of him. “But she was in there. I noticed something was-“

“And you didn’t think to call? You didn’t think maybe she could’ve been trying to draw you out again?”

Harold shakes his head again. “She was looking for,” Harold looks down, back to his screen, “information.” 

Since the first time he’d met Harold, it hadn’t taken long for John to learn that pushing, demanding answers was the very worst way to get Harold to talk, so he represses the urge to demand an explanation. Maybe any other time he’d let it go, trusting that Harold would tell him what he needs to know, but this is Root and Harold is not entirely rational when it comes to her. John is self-aware enough to realise that he isn’t either. 

He lets go of his weapon, forces himself into a facsimile of relaxed; Harold might believe Root isn’t here but John isn’t willing to bet their lives on it. They’re both worn from the heat and the over-work and if Root knew that they’d be vulnerable; an easy target. 

John asks, “Information?” 

There is a long pause filled with the hum and whirr of servers, drowning out the sound of Harold tapping away at the keys of his laptop. His attention is so focused on the screen, frowning, that John wonders if he even heard the question.

But then Harold glances towards him.

“Staring at me won’t get me to _talk_ either,” Finch says, but then belies the point by going on, “She knows this was my first company. Of course she knows. She thinks it holds some special significance to me.”

“Does it?”

Harold doesn’t reply, doesn’t look up or pause or breathe and that’s answer enough. They’ve never talked about this; the company Harold built with Nathan Ingram and how they ended, and Finch has given John every indication that they never will. 

Root knows though, John is certain of it, and he hates that fact. Sometimes he can’t stop himself thinking that Harold doesn’t trust him, even after everything they’ve done and been through together. He won’t share with John even a small part of himself; a _real_ part. Or maybe Harold’s just forgotten that there ever was anything to share. Maybe he’s forgotten that there was ever a possibility of telling someone his secrets and not having it come back to hurt him. 

Root knows, and John wants to be out of here and somewhere safe- as safe as they can be- right now.

“You don’t need to do this here,” John says, inclining his head towards the servers Harold has connected his laptops to. John frowns at the tangle of wires, the hazard they represent. 

“It’s better if-”

“We’re leaving,” John interrupts. He’s not crazy enough to touch any of Harold’s equipment. Not yet, anyway. 

“There’s no need-” Harold starts to argue, and John cuts him off. “Now.”

For a long moment Harold does nothing, stares at John like he’s the one being unreasonable here. But John has learned the hard way that Root is not to be underestimated. Not to be second-guessed. He’d have thought Harold would have learned that too, by now, but there’s some infinite naivety in Harold that makes him have hope where no one in their right mind should find any. Without that, though, John knows he wouldn’t be here.

Harold is still for long enough that John is beginning to consider bodily hauling him out but then he sighs and turns to his computers, typing a string of letters and numbers and who the hell knows what into each of them before closing the screens with a quiet click. John half-watches, half keeps his attention on their surroundings. Harold takes his time winding the wires up into bundles.

“Any time you’re ready, Harold,” John drawls.

Harold looks at him, unimpressed. 

“She won’t come here.” Harold wipes his face with the back of his hand, takes a drink from his bottle of water. 

“You don’t know that,” John says, because it’s true and he’s seen what Root is capable of. 

Harold goes willingly enough, allowing John to pull him to his feet, falls into step behind him in a way that’s become habit. He carries his bags and John doesn’t offer to help; he needs his hands free. Harold doesn’t ask for help. He never does.

Bear follows obediently. 

He won’t be satisfied until they’re at a safe house, locked away, familiar ground.

No. That’s not true. 

John won’t be satisfied until Root is dead.

*

“This is yours,” is the first thing Harold says as he walks into the apartment. 

“You didn’t think I’d be unprepared, did you?” he asks sardonically. Harold shrugs, ventures into main room with its high windows and thick blinds. The air is stale, heavy with dust and heat; almost worse than the basement he’d found Harold in. There’s air con here though and John switches it to full. It whirrs and clunks, long unused. 

Bear follows Harold, sniffs the unknown floor curiously.

Harold runs his finger along the kitchen counter top, holds his fingertips up to John.

“Not one for dusting, Mr. Reese?”

“No time,” John smiles. “My boss has me working all hours even on my days off.”

Harold snorts. “You didn’t have to _work_ today.”

“Yes, I did,” John says. 

Harold turns to him, and there is surprise on his face. John doesn’t know how he doesn’t know; how he can’t expect that this is what John will do, every time. He’ll come for Harold, no matter what he has to do. He’ll keep him safe.

John turns away, goes to check the security system by the front door. He can’t face Harold, can’t hear whatever he might have to say in response to that and he isn’t even sure why. He isn’t certain.

When he returns Harold has his laptops set up on the coffee table, a white blocky thing that’s ugly but functional and John had chosen randomly at a catalogue when he’d set up the place. Bear has curled up by his feet and looks like he’s gone to sleep.

The temperature in the apartment is quickly cooling to something more comfortable, but John’s clothes are damp from sweat and his shirt feels cold against his back. 

Harold shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

As far as John knows the apartment doesn’t have a phone line, or an internet connection, and yet somehow Harold is working away, those long lines of numbers and letters scrolling across the screens. John doesn’t bother to ask. 

“I didn’t know about this place.” Harold doesn’t look up, doesn’t pause or hesitate as he types. 

“That’s an achievement,” John says. “I’ll have to congratulate myself.”

Harold’s lips curve up into a half-smile. “I wasn’t looking.”

John believes him. 

He’s never been private, really. There’s no room for it in the army; no possibility of it working for more questionable agencies. John had assumed Harold would track him in a similar way, considering the care he took to conceal his own existence. But how could John have ever imagined _Harold_ would be like them? This, John knew, was trust. 

He sits down on the couch opposite Harold.

“It’s your day off too,” he reminds Harold, even if he knows Harold won’t stop now; that he can’t stop now.

“I find coding relaxing.” John might’ve believed him if he couldn’t see how tense Harold’s shoulders were; the lines where he frowned down at his screens. This was the way he always reacted to Root, with a different kind of fear than to anything else they’d ever faced. There’s an urgency to the way he works, like he imagines she could take away everything he has in an instant. Maybe she can. 

“Right,” John agrees, because he has nothing else to say. He can’t stop Harold, not from this, because Harold is the only one who could possibly stop her where technology is concerned. John can think of a few ways she could be _permanently_ stopped, but Harold has made it clear he isn’t willing to even entertain the idea of killing her.

Instead, he empties his own pockets; gun, ammunition, cell phone. There are two half-empty bottles of water in Harold’s bags and he goes to fill them from the sink, pushes a bottle towards Harold.

“Drink,” he orders, and Harold obeys automatically. At least that’s one thing he’s been able to train Harold to do right. 

John goes through the entire apartment, checking the rooms, their supplies; he’s stashed clothes and tinned food and weapons and ammunition here, everything they could need to lay low for a month if need be. 

As he moves from room to room, pulling blankets from the closet, blowing dust from the top of boxes of gun cartridges, he thinks how strange it is being back here after so long. He set this place up not long after deciding to work with Harold, before he knew about the machine. There’s a paranoia to the way he amassed a first aid kit that fills an entire cupboard in the back bedroom, to the neat piles of shirts and pants, still wrapped in plastic, he lined up in the drawers. He remembers how, back then, he’d expected to have to use the safehouse, sooner rather than later. He’d just been waiting for Finch to turn on him. 

Now, he can’t imagine a situation- not a single one- where Harold would do that. 

After three circuits of the apartment, just to be certain, a shower and a change of clothes, lunch and feeding Harold more water John has run out of things to do. He watches Harold for a while like he does at the Library, imagines he can smell the books and Harold’s tea and the old wooden floorboards. He must’ve dozed off because when he becomes fully aware again the light in the room is low and orange-grey. 

Harold is leaning back against the couch and John arches an eyebrow at him in question. Somehow, Bear is _still_ asleep, curled up on the rug, looking every inch the harmless, lazy family pet he isn’t.

“I’ve done everything I can,” Harold tells John. “We don’t need to hide. I’ve removed any information she might be interested in.”

He doesn’t make any move from the couch though. If anything, Harold looks like he might fall asleep right where he sits.

The apartment is on the second floor; high ground without being too high to escape from in a hurry, and outside John can see there are thick clouds in the sky for the first time in weeks. Maybe there will be rain tomorrow. Maybe this will all be over soon.

There’s a bottle of whisky tucked away at the back of a kitchen cabinet. No, that’s not true. There are several bottles of whisky, and one of vodka, hidden around the apartment because he still thought he’d need them back then. Was certain he would. Couldn’t be without the reassurance that they weren’t far out of reach, there and safe. But it’s the bottle in the kitchen cabinet he takes out, because it’s the best kind he has, pours out two glasses and hands one to Harold. He takes it without comment, sips. John doesn’t miss the grimace. 

“Not to your tastes?” John grins, sitting back down on the opposite couch. It’s leather, cold and creaky and cheap and John can feel springs pressing against his thighs. Nothing like the couch in his apartment. 

“I’ve had worse,” Harold says dryly, and takes another sip. 

In agreement, John toasts him and sips his own drink. It’s not so bad. He’s had _much_ worse.

Harold rubs at his eyes with his free hand, goes so far as to take off his glasses and lay them on the coffee table. John is mesmerised by the sight. It’s like he’s never seen Harold before. Like this is Harold without all his layers and layers of aliases and secrets. He looks younger, his eyes impossibly wider when he blinks at John.

Harold squints down at his pants regretfully. “I wish I had a suit on.” 

John has to shake his head to focus. “You look lovely as you are, Harold,” he finds himself saying, because this is how they talk to one another, and Harold laughs. It’s like being on the phone, the way they have been lately long into the night, except Harold is right here, close enough to touch. John wants to touch. 

He knows he’s staring and downs the rest of his drink to hide it. 

The room is quiet; the glass is thick, the walls soundproofed. John made sure of that. The air con has turned itself off now the room has cooled. The refrigerator in the corner of the room hums; Harold’s laptops whir. It’s not the Library but there’s the same warmth in John’s stomach that might be something like security or contentment. Or it might be the whisky. Here, like at the Library, they don’t need words to fill the silence and John refills their glasses. 

They won’t leave here tonight. He knows it from the way Harold leaves his computers open and running, takes his cell phone from his pocket and puts it on the coffee table beside his glasses. Knows it from the way he leans his head back and closes his eyes, takes a slow drink of his refilled glass. 

There’s a sudden light pattering against the window panes; rain. 

“Maybe tomorrow will be bearable,” Harold says. His head has tipped to the side, looking at the window. John wonders how much he can see.

Every day doing this job is bearable, John wants to say. 

He says, “Yeah.” 

Harold’s head tips slowly towards John and for a long moment he just stares at him. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Harold says eventually. He smiles. “Despite the terrible furnishings.”

“I didn’t have your guiding hand,” John nods. He suspects Harold knows when and why he set up this safehouse; the precautions and the precision, the dust giving him away. This is the only secret John has left. Almost the only secret John has left. 

Harold’s eyes are heavy-lidded. He scrubs at them, and John finishes off his drink, puts the glass on the table. 

“You need to sleep,” he announces and stands up, brushing off his pants. He holds out a hand to Harold, who takes it, blinks up at John as though he’s not sure why he just did that.

John can feel the dampness of Harold’s hand against his palm; condensation from the glass. He pulls and Harold lets him, doesn’t step away or tell John he’s fine, thank you. He can do it himself. Because this is not about helping. Not really.

Harold is standing very close, and he hasn’t let go of John’s hand. But then, neither has John. 

“John,” Harold says quietly. Cautiously.

“Yeah?” John wants this. He wants this more than anything. But Harold has to want it too or it means nothing. For the first time in a long time John is afraid. The muscles in his jaw feel locked up, like he wouldn’t be able to say anything more if he tried. There’s nothing for him to say. This is up to Harold. But, _God_ , he wants it.

Harold smiles again. “I was just checking. I can’t see without my glasses.”

John brings his hand up to Harold’s cheek, cold from the air conditioning, and when Harold doesn’t flinch or move away or tell him to stop John finds he can talk again. It’s easy to say, “It’s me, Harold,” and lean in to meet Harold and kiss him. Just a touch of lips at first because this is new and unexpected and nothing John every dreamed could happen. 

He worries, because they’re both over-tired and have whisky in the stomachs and not so much food, but then Harold grips his arms and presses himself against John like he wants nothing more than to do this too. 

They don’t stop. Maybe they can’t stop. John deepens the kiss and Harold returns the favour. John’s hand creeps carefully around Harold’s neck, fingertips finding Harold’s pulse, his heart rate elevated. Harold allows the touch when John’s fingers find their way to the back of his neck. 

Between breathes Harold’s hands find their way into John’s hair, find their way down his shoulders to his back and John is too hot again; the air gone, the same way he’s been feeling for days except that he doesn’t want this to end. He wants more. 

Against him, Harold is soft and firm, responsive and unyielding. His kisses are hungry and soft. John tastes and he takes and he gives and he presses in as close as he can get; as close as Harold will let him get. 

He’s light-headed when they draw apart, and John is going to blame it on exhaustion. On whisky. Not on what Harold does to him.

In front of him, Harold’s eyes are closed, and John hopes this is not a bad sign. John frowns because, this close, he can see just how worn out Harold really is. He shouldn’t have done that, he suddenly realises. He was taking advantage. Harold is-

“Don’t move,” Harold says, cutting through John’s panic. John realises he’d been pulling away, untangling their arms. Harold holds on. Then, his eyes blink open and Harold looks up at John.

“Unless you don’t-“

“I won’t move.”

Harold is silent for what feels like a long time, staring at John again like he’s trying to work him out. Like he’s a particularly challenging security system he needs to hack into. He’s not that complicated, John thinks. 

“I’m tired, I think,” Harold says, suddenly all in a hurry. “I’d do more, if you wanted to, but I’m too tired.”

John nods. “Tomorrow.” 

Harold pats him awkwardly on the arm, which makes no sense after what they’d just been doing, but this is Harold and John’s gotten used to not understanding him half the time. John smiles. Finds himself smiling.

Outside, the rain is starting to come down hard, drumming loudly against the windowpanes.

Inside, Harold holds onto John and nods in reply and smiles too.

“Tomorrow,” Harold agrees.

.End.

**Author's Note:**

> The title:
> 
>  _"There is no such thing as a complete lack of order, only a design so vast it appears unrepetitive up close."_ -Louise Erdrich
> 
> The story:
> 
> Was incredibly long in the writing, and my thanks go to cienna for her eternal support and reminders that this fic existed and needed _finishing_. It was written on the train to work in London, on a train to Portland from Seattle, during a heatwave in New York (because, apparently, you can curse yourself writing stories), in my brother's flat in Barcelona, and at home. It's been everywhere. I've loved every minute of it.


End file.
